


The First Failure

by moomkin



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Angst, Death, Gen, Homesickness, dumb flower bridge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 14:48:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16221317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moomkin/pseuds/moomkin
Summary: Héctor doesn't get to cross the bridge.





	The First Failure

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever Coco fanfiction!!! I'm not sure if some things were explained in canon - like how Héctor has a photo of himself in the Land of the Dead to give to Miguel - but I decided to explore that a little bit. If anything is wrong, I apologize!
> 
> *I don't fandom that often, but I found myself feeling such a connection to Héctor. Of wanting to go home, of wanting to be with family, and having circumstances hold you far away. There's something very powerful about pouring your pain into writing and feeling it through a different 'person.' Writing is therapy :3

Héctor woke up... _dead._

It was certainly a relief. He'd been in so much agony before he died that his first thought when 'waking up' was ready acceptance. It was so much nicer being dead... to not feel anything. No pain...

But then the strange hollowness started to settle in. It was something that made death hurt in a way that sunk far deeper than mere stomach discomfort. A hurt hat sunk deeply into his bones. Into all that he had left. An empty cage...

Regret.

_What bad luck..._

_Just_ as Héctor had decided to go home, he'd gotten food poisoning. It had struck so suddenly, and so sharply, that he couldn't even ask Ernesto to run for a doctor. To help. To...

Héctor's hand went to his pocket. _No..._ it was still there. The letter he had written to Coco. If it was on him, on his person, did that mean it had never been sent?

He had no way to know.

Arriving at the Land of the Dead was strange. He woke up, literally, in a bed. As if life had been merely a dream. He wore the clothes he had died in. He couldn't be fooled! It was very easy to come to terms with being dead when one woke up as a skeleton.

There were other skeleton people there, whose job apparently was to get all the newly deceased to join the Land of the Dead society. Which meant learning a lot of dumb rules. Héctor was as pleasant as he could be. Hey, he died! But that didn't mean that death had to be sad, especially once he realized that he could break himself apart and put himself back together again with only minimal discomfort.

 _It would be a fun game!_ Héctor thought. He couldn't wait to do silly tricks for Coco! How she would laugh...

And then the regret returned. Harsher this time.

Because he certainly did _not_ want to do silly tricks like walking his skeleton hand across a table for Coco any time soon.

He had wanted to go home. So badly. _What terrible luck._ Knowing he had made the wrong choice to walk out that door. To chase a silly dream. To leave those he loved behind.

And no matter how much he missed Coco, now, he would just have to settle with seeing her.

But there were even rules to that!

There were so many rules! Everything in this new world ran on memories. On the Day of the Dead, your photo would be put up on an ofrenda - it didn't even matter whose! - and you would then be able to go visit every ofrenda you were on a bridge built out of marigold petals. You could collect whatever was offered on the ofrenda or on your grave as a gift, then declare that when you came back and that became currency in some strange monetary system Héctor could barely understand.

Héctor didn't even care. Even if his future being dead depended on it, he could not care about finances. He would be happy to wear rags for all eternity as long as it meant he could cross the bridge.

As luck would have it, every person who died during the year "woke up" on the day before the Day of the Dead. It was only fair, they explained.

Héctor didn't care.

He was practically bouncing while he waited in line. He'd told just about everyone who he met how excited he was to see Coco again. So everyone knew why Hector could not stand still! Hector charmed just about everyone he met. Even the nice skeleton woman who told him (and all the other recently deceased) how her machine worked. That it would scan his face, while simultaneously scanning _every_ ofrenda in all of Mexico looking for his photo!

It was all so very exciting!

Héctor wasn't first in line, so he got to see how the process was done. One person stood in front of the face-scanning machine - _ding!_ \- a green light popped in brilliant color above the monitor, and the woman told them to have a nice visit.

 _Ding!_ Again! "Have a nice visit."

And just like that, the skeletons would wander to their flower bridge, the petals glowing a warm orange glow as dead feet stepped upon them.

_Ding!_

Héctor moved closer. Closer to the machine. Closer to home.

 _Ding!_ "Have a nice visit!"

And what would he feel? When he saw Coco again? When he saw Imelda again? Would he be sad? Happy? How would they be doing? Would Imelda be taken care of? That thought started to make Héctor nervous.

_Ding!_

But there was no time to worry! He was moving closer! And closer! The excitement began to well up again -

_Ding!_

\- and now it was his turn!

_Brrrrrrrrrrrrt_

Héctor's face fell. There was no nice, pleasant _ding._ No brilliant emerald light. No "have a nice visit."

_That can't be._

"Ah... why is your machine making that sound?"

"I'm sorry," the woman at the other side of the monitor said. "But no one has put up your photo."

The faces around Héctor suddenly looked away. In embarrassment. Héctor's own face fell, but his was in disbelief. He tried to smile.

"I'm sorry but that is not possible."

But the woman explained that the machine could not possibly make a mistake. One of the others tugged at his sleeve. To steer him away. But Héctor would not be moved.

"Please. _Check again._ "

Héctor tried to pour all the sincerity he could into his voice. "I need to go home."

"I'm sorry, sénor, but it does not make mistakes. No one put up your photo."

The hold up in the line had caught the attention of security. They were beginning to move toward them. Héctor grew more desperate.

"I know my picture is up, if you just-ah!"

He had no idea his bones could hurt. But the guards were so harsh! They grabbed onto his arms - one on either side - and attempted to tear him away from the machine. Héctor locked his hands onto the booth.

"My picture is up, you can please just try again."

"Sénor." That was one of the guards. No sympathy in his voice. Only a stern warning.

That's when Héctor began to feel very desperate.

"Then there's another way. What did people do before photography? There's a way then!"

But he didn't even get an answer that time. Héctor's eyes searched the crowd, desperate for compassion. For someone who'd been charmed by his stories and his jokes and his love for his daughter to argue that he deserved another chance. But all he saw were eyes diverting from his. Annoyed that he'd held up the line. Kept _them_ from crossing over sooner.

"No, just wait-"

But it was too late.

Héctor struggled, the injustice of it fueling some manic drive to break away. If he could just tear out of the guard's grip... he could run for it. He could see the bridge... he could see other families walking over the orange petals... if only he could break away.

He had no idea how sharp bones were. The maroon mariachi suit he wore was well made, but ripped effortlessly as he tugged at the guard's grip. His shoulder ripped through first, then-

Then before he knew it, he was sitting in a small cell.

A _criminal._

No one wanted to talk to him. Everyone else wanted to have their turn crossing the bridge. And so Héctor sat alone. In a prison cell.

Wondering why he'd had such bad luck.

He knew his photo should be up. He remembered taking it. He remembered how much he and Imelda laughed when they looked at the print for the first time. She looked so stern! Just the way the photographer had asked them to be! The photographer had explained it was so the picture would turn out clear. No smiling! You could not hold a smile for so long! Even little Socorro followed instructions. But not Héctor! How could he hold back a smile when he was surrounded by his two girls... posing for a photo that would hold his memory for all time? He wanted everyone to know how much he loved his family! That nothing would hold him back from smiling, that nothing would keep him from-

The hurt return...

He'd wanted to go home... he'd been willing to give up on his dream. He'd decided that he'd been content playing music in Santa Cecilia... that he didn't have to become a famous musician. That he could be content sharing both the things he loved with one heart...

If only he hadn't died.

With a shaking hand, he reached into his right breast pocket, pulling out the letter he'd written. _He'd been in Mexico City... he and Ernesto were on the cusp of success. They just needed to do one more show..._

When he'd started to feel homesick. _He'd seen a photographer and thought it would be enough to ease the guilt. The homesickness. If he posed for another photo, sent the letter home. This time how surprised Coco would be! Not to get a letter, or a song, but a photograph of her papa!..._

Héctor winced as he ripped open the letter. It would never be delivered, but it hurt to open the envelope all the same. He ignored the letter, for he knew what it said. Instead, he looked at the photo.

It was a silly photo. A grin was plastered on Héctor's face. He had hoped Coco would have laughed when she saw it. And remembered her silly papa and how much he loved her.

Héctor had wanted to send it. Almost sent it. But instead he'd decided to go home so he'd kept the letter in his pocket. Never wrote an address on it. Once his mind had been made up, there had been no point to write an address on the evelope - he knew who to give it to! There was no point to pay for the postage. It would have been a special letter - hand delivered! And he imagined how Coco would have rushed out the door as he approahced. He imagined Imelda standing in the doorway, her head's disapproving shakes but a smile creeping slowly on her lips...

But his letter had never been sent. He'd never gotten the chance to go home.

And he had no idea why he couldn't go home now.

Why no one had put up his photo.

Why no one remembered him.

 _Maybe next year,_ Héctor thought, his spirits rising. _Yes... maybe something happened this year, maybe Ernesto has my photo but he is still touring Mexico! Maybe he will take it back to Santa Cecilia when he goes home next! And maybe the family portrait was being framed... framing takes a long time! This year it didn't happen, this year the machine couldn't find me, but next year! Next year there will be enough time for everything to be sorted out! Someone will put up my photo! Ernesto won't let me down... There's two photos of me in the living world! Next year..._

So Héctor buried the hurt he felt, the confusion on where things had gone wrong, the self-pity at not going home this year. A smile returned to his face. Like the smile he couldn't hold back from his family photo. Like the silly one he put on for his photo to send home to Coco.

Héctor had been dealt a string of bad luck.

But he knew he'd get home as long as he kept true to himself.

So Héctor smiled, and began practicing ways he could break his bones apart and do silly tricks for when he saw Coco again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :3


End file.
